Like this:

That December
We spent sleeping together On Cape Cod
With plenty of snow and firewood
You would wake me early
To watch the storms From Race Point.

That December

When I taught you to paint, we wrote a thousand poems
Had cases of Bordeaux and the hot water never ended.
Threw the TV out the window, ripped out the phone
And I painted you with coloured Syrups for dessert.

She lived with Her on Linden Street in a three room Scovill house which over looked the industrialized Mad River. They had painted the walls and floors and ceilings white and at mid night they either made love or Her wrote poetry about making love, usually with She. Both were proud of the number of lovers they had had and would spend much time detailing their exploits, various wounds and conquests. Inevitably this would lead to their own great love making sometimes by way of argument, jealousy, or down right lust, but always ending up in great love making. They were also very proud of the fact that despite their notorious histories they had indeed been conservatively faithful to each other. One could say they were a pair of retired heart breaker veterans enjoying their golden years in the pleasure of one another.
She slept more than Her did, but She got up earlier than Her could. She thought Her American accent was funny, Her thought She’s German accent was alluring. She had studied at the University in Hamburg, Art and Psychology. Therefore it was easily understood why Her paintings infuriated She – All Her did was play – not paint. Her studio was confined to the basement, the dungeon as it was mutually referred to. While She had aspired to the attic. She disliked to step foot into the dungeon and Her was forbidden to enter the Attic – ever since that time Her had done rude things to the walls with a can of black spray paint and 16 jars of Shop-Rite cherry red nail polish.
At first there was much tears and drama concerning this artistic rift and its symbolism as referred to the rest of the relationship was explored at length. However great love making has a way of making even such ominous signs as this fall into a minor perspective. There was not much money but the necessities were supplied – red wine, cigarette tobacco, bus tickets to new York city, paint stuff, pure un-sanforized cotton bed sheets spread out on a Japanese mattress by an ever open window just steps away from the never ending hot water of a black and white octagon tiled bathroom where in between –
I’d kneel worshiping your steaming winter body exploring joyous mysteries familiar to our spiritual flesh…

So the point is that I can write it with he/him and her/ she – “He lived with her on Linden street….” But the very nature of English makes it totally awkward if I want to do the same with anonymous people of the same sex as you can see. He and Him wouldn’t work any better either would it? So just a little example of sexual preference bias ingrained in the language – submitted for your disapproval…

So now I sit here alone with nothing but rain and exceptionally high tides.
Nothing left alive, shore covered with bodies and scraps of bodies.

A hand out of the sand fat slightly blue, argued with over a gold wedding band. A sailors striped shirt knotted with sand and rust, search the pockets finding only small teeth and more sand. In between rocks flightless sea birds, black eyes minute reflections of broken wings reflecting empty promise of free flight.

Scream blood from my vocal chords, scream for the black eel strangling me with its own throat, scream for the oozing woman finger nails infecting me with dismembered sex.

I don’t know how to live any other way, I don’t know how to breathe anything other than decay, I want to swallow everything I see, every stone everybody, every woman by her cunt, every man by the cock, everything – until the only thing left is me swallowing myself.

does not notice children crying,rain stopping, sun brightening,but rather a yellow butterfly –

moves her headto keep it in sightuntil for some reason she will never know, can no longer do so.

yellow

years ago worked for several intense years with a horse rescue rehab group in Connecticut. Sometimes there were happy endings, sometimes you had to let them go. the group is still there doing fine work for these beautiful creatures

The Humane Organization Representing Suffering Equines (H.O.R.S.E.) of Connecticut Inc., is a non-profit, 501(c)3 organization dedicated to the rescue and rehabilitation of abused and neglected horses. Over the past thirty years, H.O.R.S.E. has saved more than 650 lives. In addition to direct intervention, H.O.R.S.E. also maintains an ongoing commitment to educating the public regarding horse care.

Like this:

how many times have I thought to see you there?
after all these years – damn near 40
don’t I still imagine I come round the wooded path way bend
and by that pond somehow you’re there

ghosts haunt the places that the living know
it has nothing g to do with where they died
ghosts haunt this place where I grew up
where I first saw you naked
and you broke my heart open before I even knew I’d love you

I know I won’t ever see you now
but if promises can be made to ghosts
then someday soon I’ll meet you here again
golden apples silver apples
pine needles on a summer day patch of grass back by the old turtle pond

words someday someone might say to you unimportant memories aroused to beauty non-the-less like cobwebs beaded up with dew brass fittings on a cedar door

The days debris randomly swept into a banked up fire before to your own black iron bed you’d slowly go.

w/all our coming and our going will we ever meet again? fragile as the moth is the flame one slight breathand darkness has us all. w/that in mind, I mind no dancer let us join whatever way we can before the waiting darkness makes us all fall down.

clumsy fingers held her own heavy breast skyward as if the moon areola hungry for communion wouldn’t have found her without guidance

gentle at the end of the world even rocks all soft and buds and lilac silver slanting sun and when the gem like green rolls down to meet the slate blue sea rippled with gently disappearing pearls?

Shouldn’t you be left alone,cradled in the earth for another thousand years or so?Discovered as some tantalizing sourceof artefactual speculation :those marks –true cause of death,or left by some postmortem carnivore?Perhaps sacrificial ritual,signs still legible,though fading as ifsome water colour in reverseuntil only bare bleached paperslightly stained .

between the posts at midnighta long wire of electricitycalls little bits of rusting ironto lantern the siesta heart a way

this conglomeration was published by the on-line journal Eleutheria: The Scottish Poetry Review on 3 September 2008. . I cannot find a working link to it nor archives – which is a shame. They were very kind to me and many other deserving writers. I have corrected several spelling errors from the originally published piece.